Lethal Literature. Kym Roberts
don’t you?”
She squeaked, then snuffled my bare leg, tickling my ankle. I couldn’t help but laugh. “You just want breakfast,” I scolded.
My accusation caused her to jump straight up in the air. It amused me no end to see our thirteen-pound pink armadillo prance around happily. Princess was unique when it came to armadillos. Her shell didn’t just have a touch of pink at the ridges of her bands, like most armadillos did that were considered pink in color. Princess was pink all over. Almost like she was a combination of a fairy and a nine-banded armadillo. I liked to think we had a lot in common with our mixture of cultures and our names—because of my love for everything pink, Daddy named her after me when he found her as a baby.
I unlocked the door and she scurried in ahead of me, running straight for her bowl in the back storeroom. I followed her and smiled as I emptied the bag of mealworms into the pink ceramic bowl the two of us had made the previous week. Most people wouldn’t understand how an armadillo could help make a bowl, but Princess was the one who had the inspiration for it. She’d chosen the design by chewing up a Jan Fearnley’s children’s book, Milo Armadillo, and forced me to turn what was left into a piece of book art instead of reading material. The inside of the bowl had the cover art depicting a pink armadillo with a backpack. Princess had conveniently chewed Milo’s name out of the title, so no title graced the bowl. Instead, it was as if Princess got to look in the mirror and see a caricature of herself every time she ate, while the script chased around her image on the outside of the bowl.
I placed the food on the floor and she scurried to it, hoping for the best. The scent of the natural product, however, displeased Princess. She huffed, and I could have sworn her beady little eyes glared.
“Sorry, girl. You heard the vet. Cat food is bad for your health. From now on you’re going organic.”
I think she may have growled before she turned around and brushed through the pink velvet curtain that closed off our storeroom.
“Suit yourself!” I called out to her. “But this is the only breakfast you’re going to get. It will be waiting for you.”
I left the bowl and got to work. A few moments later as I pulled out a box of books donated for our literacy drive, I heard the buzzer on the front door and then the swish of the doors opening and knew Princess was on a rampage. I cringed. She was probably going to wreak havoc on the neighbor’s garden for breakfast.
Thankfully, the morning went by quickly, but my thoughts were still focused on Isla Sperry being trapped in the clutches of Alzheimer’s. I’d known Isla since I was eight years old. Even when I moved away to Colorado at seventeen, Isla had tracked me down. She’d sent me birthday cards every year and graduation cards when I graduated from high school and then college. When I returned to Hazel Rock, she was still a regular customer at the Barn until she’d fallen and broken her hip. At that time, she moved to a long-term care facility, and I’d only visited her a few times. Each time she greeted me with a smile and a kiss. Looking back, I realized I should have questioned the times when she appeared confused. I had no idea Alzheimer’s had been the cause; I’d thought it was the pain medication she’d been given, coupled with fatigue, that had caused her lapses. Our conversations were warm, and she’d always seemed coherent, even if some of our topics of conversation were repeated a couple of times.
This morning’s news, however, was a game changer. I needed to see her before I went away for the weekend. Isla was the only grandmotherly figure I had in my life since both sets of mine had died before I was born. The little old lady who came into the Book Barn a couple times a week to see me as a child deserved better from me as an adult.
Daddy came in just before noon, and I’d already made up my mind. I needed to get out of the Barn for a couple hours. “I’m going to go out for lunch. Do you mind?”
Daddy looked up from the computer screen that he was using to log in to our new inventory program for books. “Are you meeting Scarlet?”
“No, I think I’ll head into Oak Grove and pick up some barbecue.”
“It’s Wednesday, the diner is having barbecued ribs.”
“I know, but I have another stop to make.”
Dad got an all-knowing look in his eyes as he smiled and let out a puff of air through his nostrils. “I got it. You’re meeting someone and you don’t want me to know about it. Your love life is your business, Princess.”
There was no doubt Daddy thought I was going to meet Mateo. My love life, however, had nothing to do with it. My guilt did. I wasn’t sure why I was holding back where I planned to spend my afternoon from my dad, but for some reason, I felt the need to hide that I was going to see Isla.
It didn’t seem to make sense. Over the past year my dad and I had buried many of our differences and misunderstandings, but some things we could not discuss. The Sperrys and our love lives were on top of that list.
I grabbed the stack of cozy mysteries I’d set aside for Isla and left the Barn without any further discussion. Since I’d returned home, I’d been using my daddy’s old beat-up Ford pickup that bore more rust than paint. The heavy metal door squeaked something awful when I opened it and jumped up onto the worn vinyl. I winced as the day’s heat burned through my clothing and slammed the door with a loud thunk. The truck’s old seat was cracked and covered with duct tape, but it could still peel the skin right off the back of my thighs in the relentless Texas heat. The gas gauge didn’t work and the windows cranked down manually, but somehow the truck seemed fitting while I was living in Texas.
On my way down the road I could smell the spring flowers in the air and I could hear the birds singing and the sound of children’s laughter at the only daycare we had in town. The truck bounced and rattled its way across the bridge over the river as I headed into Oak Grove. The drive was about as uneventful as my typical Saturday night, and I made it to the long-term care facility in record time.
I parked in the small parking lot off the circular drive next to the entrance. I’d always thought the sprawling ranch looked a lot like the funeral home in Hazel Rock, and it creeped me out. The similarities always made me think about moving from one place to the next, and I wasn’t sure how the residents could stand it. Then again, maybe it gave them comfort—their surroundings wouldn’t change much.
I approached the entrance feeling like I was one step away from death’s door, especially when I got a closer look at the man to the left of the doors, sitting in a wheelchair under the covered porch, his chin resting against his chest. His skin clung to the bones on his hands and face with no meat between his skeleton and the pale covering that looked like it hadn’t seen the sun in a century, despite the fact that the man was sitting outside. He was wrapped in a blanket while wearing a coat, and I felt the need to sweat for him in the warm breeze. The soft snoring sounds he made were the only indication he was still breathing. I walked by quietly, trying to be respectful and not disturb his sleep as I entered the front door. Off to my right was the reception desk where a skinny woman I guessed to be in her late forties was laughing and talking to three elderly gentlemen sitting against the wall in chairs lined up like they were ready to go into a doctor’s office. On the opposite side of the foyer, an elderly couple sat holding hands across the armrests of their chairs. They were staring straight ahead in silence, as if somehow, they could see a better view than the white tile floors and beige walls the facility afforded. I imagined them looking across the shadowed elevations as the setting sun painted a spectacular view of the Texas Hill Country at dusk. I liked that view better as well.
I said hello to the couple who nodded in my direction as one, then I turned to the woman at the reception desk. She had kind eyes and a weathered face that I suspected made her look older than what she actually was. Her thin brown hair stopped at her chin in a blunt bob hairstyle. The name tag on her shirt read Joan.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Guilt washed over me. If I was a regular she would’ve recognized me, but she didn’t. “I’m here to see Isla Sperry,” I said.
“Is she expecting you?”
“No.